Of Pickaxes and Three Feet of Solid Stone
by DinerGuy
Summary: One thought ran though his head, over and over, as he returned her gaze as steadily as he could manage: 'Don't lie to Mom. Don't lie to Mom. Don't lie to Mom.' - - Rufus faces some unexpected consequences from his actions at the Alamo.


_A/N: I had this idea way back when the Alamo episode first aired, but then I just never got around to writing it out. But then I started rewatching the series, and after seeing it again, I decided this fic needed to be written. So here you go._

 _Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine._

 _Standard disclaimers apply._

* * *

He ignored it in the heat of the moment, which was completely understandable. After all, nothing mattered more than getting the women and the children out of what would go down in history as a complete and utter massacre. Rufus knew it was futile to keep banging away at three feet of solid rock with a pickaxe, but there was really no other way of escape that he could see. And if he was going to die, he was going to go down doing his very best to save the others. (At the least, he was not going to go while cowering in the corner. He was pretty sure the tool in his hands could take out at least a couple of Mexicans before they got him, if it came down to that.)

Finally, thankfully, he remembered the grenades that Wyatt had insisted on bringing along. Those ridiculous (blessed) pieces of modern weaponry that Rufus had been appalled were coming with them when he'd first found out (although now Rufus was sure he was never going to complain about the soldier's foresight ever again). And then they were in a rush to get everyone they could out safely, and Rufus didn't even have time to breathe between rushing to find Lucy and then rushing to get everyone through the aqueduct and then finding their way downriver and away from the carnage ensuing inside of the fort. He tried not to think about what was happening to Davy Crockett and the others at that very moment. (If he did, he probably wouldn't be able to bring himself to continue away from it all.)

When they were finally trekking back to the lifeboat, just the three of them, he finally allowed himself to realize just how stiff his hands were. He frowned and looked down as he opened his fists, hissing as the skin on his palms tightened. Neither Lucy nor Wyatt heard his sharp intake of breath. They were ahead of him, talking in low voices about something, and so Rufus just clenched his fists again and strode forward along the path. There would be plenty of time to worry about it later. (Right now, they just needed to get home.)

By the time they landed at Mason Industries, his hands weren't the only things protesting his movements. Even if he could ignore the large blisters on his hands, some of which had already burst and bled and would require patching up (Although why did they have to be on his palms? This was all very inconvenient.), he couldn't ignore the intense throbbing soreness that was radiating up and down his entire arms and then shooting through his shoulders to run down his back. He spent at least an hour in a hot tub of epsom salt water, and when the bath finally cooled off so much that he could no longer tolerate staying in it, he could barely climb over the side of the ceramic basin to dry himself off, and he might have spent a good ten minutes just lying there before he managed to haul himself to his feet and dress.

He hoped his mother was not around when he limped down the short hallway to his room (or at least, it had used to seem short, but now he wondered why he had ever thought it was). The last thing he needed was to have to explain himself. She still thought he worked as a coder; this whole situation would require a lot more explaining than Rufus was prepared to do at the moment. Unfortunately, his luck was not what he had hoped, and his mother stepped out of his brother's bedroom with a bundle of clothes in her hands just as he was nearing his own door. Her brow furrowed as she took in his hunched posture and the white gauze wrapped around his hands.

"Rufus, are you okay?"

"Oh, yeah," he replied as casually as he could. "Totally. Why do you ask?"

She quirked an eyebrow as she cocked her head at him. "No reason."

There was silence for a moment as Rufus fidgeted at her gaze, then he shrugged. "Team building exercises, Mom."

"Team building?" she repeated. "Like falling off logs and onto the people you work with?"

One thought ran though his head, over and over, as he returned her gaze as steadily as he could manage: 'Don't lie to Mom. Don't lie to Mom. Don't lie to Mom!' Then he cleared his throat. "That is a team building exercise, yes."

"Uh huh." She still didn't look convinced, but she let him slide. "Okay then. Good night, son."

"Night, Mom." He barely held back his sigh of relief until he was on the other side of his closed bedroom door.

The next morning, Rufus was almost certain he was not going to be able to get up. He was seriously tempted to call in a sick day and just ignore everyone and everything, but the thought of the team being called into the field and something horrible happening because he wasn't there for the lifeboat to take off immediately kept him from actually doing so. (And even still, he seriously weighed the chances of Flynn jumping that morning before he made his decision to clumsily drag himself out of bed.)

He noted with a wince that his hands were even more stiff than they had been the night before, and he bit his lip as the gauze stuck to his palms when he unwrapped it from each hand. Somehow, he patched himself back up and managed to get dressed. (He had to choose between a shirt that he'd have to raise his arms over his head to don or one that would require pulling at least one arm behind his back before buttoning, which was basically choosing between the lesser of two evils, but he finally settled on a loose t-shirt that he kind of just wiggled into.) He had never been more grateful for his bad habit of keeping his Converse tied and just slipping them on and off, even though his mother always commented on how he was ruining his shoes by doing it that way.

When he finally limped into the kitchen, he was extremely grateful no one else was around to see his clumsy, halting attempts at making breakfast. He went for whatever was in easy reach and took the least effort.

And then he dropped his spoon on the floor.

"I don't ever want to get old," Rufus grumbled to himself as he considered how to best retrieve his utensil. He slowly stretched his legs to either side and then sort of lowered himself down, bracing one hand on the counter as he painfully reached for the spoon with the other.

"Rufus, what is the matter with you?"

The voice from behind him caused him to jump in surprise, which elicited a muted yelp of pain as his muscles protested at the sudden movement. He sighed as he stood up (again very slowly). "Hey, Mom," he greeted, purposely ignoring her question and hoping she wouldn't keep pushing for an answer. "How are you this morning? Any plans for today?"

"Rufus."

"Okay, okay, right, uh, well, no, I'm just sore."

She folded her arms at his rapid-fire response and looked him in the eye.

Rufus shifted uncomfortably, then shrugged with an apologetic smile. "My friend from work is teaching me some self defense moves." It wasn't exactly a lie. He had been learning from Wyatt during their missions. He'd patched up a bullet hole with nineteenth century medical supplies, for crying out loud. (That had to count as self defense, or at least, survival skills, and they were all the same thing in the end, right?)

"A friend?" She immediately jumped on the word. "What friend? Do I know them? Is it a girl?"

"What?" Rufus replied quickly. "No! Mom, no; his name is Wyatt."

"Wyatt? Have you told me about him before? I think I'd remember him."

And then the sound of a text alert broke into the conversation, and Rufus had never been so happy to hear it. "Oh that's work!" He grabbed for his phone and then nodded, barely keeping his excitement in check. "See you later, Mom." He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and grabbed the remaining half of his bagel off of his plate as he rushed for the door.

He was pretty sure he limped quite conspicuously on his way, but at least he'd offered an explanation for it to his mother. Now he just had to hope he didn't come home with anything worse after this next mission. If she had to come see him in the hospital, he'd never ever hear the end of it.


End file.
